


Getting through a bad day.

by Septic84



Series: Ghost version of myself [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Existential Crisis, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Other, Phil Lester is a great guy, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Sick Dan Howell, Trying to get better, numb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septic84/pseuds/Septic84
Summary: Dan has learned about his depression and understands it better now, that doesn't keep the bad days from happening.





	Getting through a bad day.

The second I opened my eyes I knew it was going to be a long day. 

My body felt heavier, my mind was fuzzy and an unspecified ache resounded throughout my body. At least we could stay home today.  
I got up and made my way to the bathroom, everything feels pointless when I am like this, however, I know that part of bringing it back around is self-care. I reluctantly showered, put on clean comfortable clothes and make my way to the kitchen. My mind plays a step by step narration as if it knows it is easier for me to exist when I follow a script.  
Phil looks up at me and offers a sympathetic smile, but no words. He knows already. I guess after years of living together he noticed my pattern as much as I did. I offered a resolute head nod in acknowledgment. I had spent years ignoring Phil when I was in my “black hole” There were many times I would literally leave everything behind and walk the streets of London, for hours, without checking in or speaking with anyone. When I came back to the flat, Phil would always be in the lounge, waiting for me. I know a few times he was crying, I am sure more than a few times he was worried. This still caused me guilt, even after I had agreed not to do that anymore. After accepting my depression myself, I spoke to Phil. I was scared, but as I should have expected Phil was nothing but loving and supportive. It still took me at least a year to stop the voices yelling in my head that he was lying, that he was sick of me, that I was annoying and I needed to "get over it" every time I felt lost. Now it doesn't really happen unless it's a really bad day. On bad days such as how this one seemed to be shaping up, those voices were always shouting louder than my will to silence them. Phil made a comment shortly after our initial conversation that he would give me space, but he needed to know if I was going out and where. He also requested that I take my phone with me, even if I never looked at it. Phil was my best friend, so I agreed. Of course my intention was never to cause him strife, but no matter the intent, I still was. After seeing his face and how much it took to make that request, I promised him that I would do my best never do just disappear again. So far, I have kept that promise.

Fill kettle, start kettle, get a mug, get coffee.  
Put coffee in the mug, get the spoon.  
Wait for the kettle.  
“You know you are just overreacting, stop it. You're too old for this childish shit. Snap out of it.”  
Ignore lies my head tells me. The kettle is now boiling. In the beginning, Phil would always offer to make everything for me. This seemed to have worked for awhile, but it wasn't logically. I had told him one morning a few months ago that I wanted to force through it myself. He agreed, though I could tell he was somewhat disappointed.  
“He was not. He was relieved. In fact, Phil would be better off if you left. Just go, he wants this. He doesn't need to see you despondent. It's going to bring him down.”  
Phil loves me, illness and all.  
Turn off the burner, pour water into the cup, stir.  
“You are not really depressed, you are just lazy and apathetic.”  
Walk into the lounge, sit next to Phil.  
“He doesn't want you here, you know.”  
Deep breath in. Take a sip.  
“Do you feel like watching anything in particular?” Phil questioned hesitantly. He knew how fragile I was when I got like this.  
“No. Anything is fine.” Another thing I noticed about myself when I was like this is that my manners and pleasantries were far and few between. I really didn't like this. “Thanks, though.” I forced out.  
“No problem!” Phil said, playing whatever show he was already watching. I tried to stay focused on the show, but my mind was drifting. We were supposed to record the SIMS today, we were supposed to contact our suppliers about merch. I was supposed to do a live show at some point. I don't know how many more people I will let down today because of my stupid brain. STOP it. I am fine, this is fine. There is plenty of time in the day. We will be fine.  
“Dan, breath. You're okay.” I heard Phil coach. I took a deep breath in and then let it out.  
“I'm sorry,” I muttered. I always apologize, I feel like such a burden.  
“You're not feeling well today. It's okay.” Phil encouraged.  
“Yeah.” At least now I could admit it instead of trying to excuse it away.  
“Do what you need to feel better. I wish I could help more.”  
I turned my head and half smiled at him. “Thanks.”

After about 20 minutes exhaustion started to take over. This was the worst part when I knew we had to do “work” things. I tried to take deep breaths, stand up, move around and stretch, nothing was working.  
I glanced at Phil and nodded towards my room, he nodded in acknowledgment. I didn't like to speak much in this state, Phil respected that, too.  
I lay down, pulling the duvet up to my chin and closes my eyes. My legs are aching so badly I can't help but move them. I feel like I should want to cry or yell or break things. All I feel is bored and numb. I can't be bothered to care anymore, the negative chants that had been ruminating now fade into silence. The ring of nothingness in my ears slowly dissipates as am pulled into sleep.

I have no idea how long I have been asleep, but a soft knock and the door creaking open wakes me.  
Phil doesn't speak, he simply comes in, sets a bottle of water and an apple on my nightstand. Before he leaves he squeezes my shoulder. Phil had asked me what I needed from him when I got like this. I asked him to make sure that I drank water and ate at least something. I also told him that if I hadn't showered in three days, or If I haven't gone outside to get fresh air for a while, to encourage me to do so. Forcefully, if needed. Phil again agreed. These are all parts of self-care that I can't be bothered with when it is this bad.  
I sit up, that's the first hurdle.  
Drink half the water. -Done  
Take a bite of apple-Done  
Drink  
Bite  
Drink  
Bite.  
The water and apple are now gone and I lay back down. I should want to get up, want to make the SIMS video, want to tweet something profound. I don't. I should want these things, but I don't care about them right now. Nothing matters. I don't care about anything, I just want to sleep the empty numb feelings away, hoping when I wake up my brain is reset and I can actually function. I know eventually this will happen, however, I never know how long it will take. How long will I be lost in this dark murky blackness that is swallowing me? This part scares me the most when I care again. A day could be a week, a week could be a month and a month, well shit. On the other hand, now, when I am like this, I just want to vanish and never come back. Never have to think, never have to make choices, never hurting anyone...  
More unnoticed time passes as I sleep. I am awoken again by a soft knock, Phil entering and setting another bottle of water and a half of a sandwich on my nightstand. He picked up the apple core and water bottle and turned to leave, but not before softly saying. “I know you feel like you are, but you are not alone.” With that, he leaves. All I want it to go back to sleep, but now is when the restless part comes. I can't eat. I can't stop moving. I am back to caring again, but now I am caring too much. What if this thing I said made me look this way? What if I have reached my peek and there is nothing else for me? I am going to die in a short amount of time. My Parents are going to die. Collin is going to die. Phil is going to die. I am going to die. What's the point of getting out of bed if nothing is in my control? If nothing I do really matters, what's the point in doing anything? I can't speak right now, so I come off like an asshole. I can't express how I really feel. I can't be fine either. Help, I need help. Please, oh, God.  
STOP. I have started to be able to stop myself from falling off of the edge entirely now. I am still for thirty seconds, taking deep breaths in and out.  
Get up.  
Open the door.  
Walk to the lounge. Phil isn't there.  
Phil isn't in his room.  
He is in the gaming room, editing. Of course, he was. Phil's way of coping with me was working. He wanted to make sure I knew he wouldn't let my illness destroy our working relationship. He had assured me that he understood and it never bothered him picking up extra editing duties when I was having a bad day. (Or, in some cases, days) “If your leg was broken, I wouldn't expect you to take out the bins now, would I?” he had reasoned with me one day. Because that's how Phil was. He was my number one supportive lifeline, always.  
“Hey.” He said, smiling removing the headphones.  
“Hi. I'm surprised there was even something to edit.” I said, sitting next to him. Sometimes just being near him made my thoughts stop. Phil looked at me carefully, trying to sense what I needed. He nodded, reached over and squeezed my hand, then turned back to the screen. He slid the headphones back on and continued.  
Sighing, relieved that I didn't have to try to make conversation, I leaned over and laid my head on his shoulder, only faintly hearing our voices through the headset. I watched him work. He never really talked about it, but he really was good at editing and placement. I should tell him that more often, though he knows I appreciate his work. Phil continued what he was doing for awhile. Time had no meaning when I was like this.  
Phil shifted. “I need a wee.” He said, softly. I slid my head off his shoulder.  
Phil knew that I didn't like loud noises or voices when I was like this. Things that were overstimulating made me too anxious and listening to or watching anything portrayed emotionally made me feel worse. Happy, sad, mad, it didn't matter, it was just something that I have learned to avoid now that I understand my illness somewhat.  
He came back in, stretching. “Did you manage to eat the sandwich or drink any more water?” He asked, gently. I flushed.  
“No, sorry.”  
“That's alright. Did you want me to go get them so you can try?”  
I shook my head. “I just can't eat right now.”  
“I understand. I need you to drink the water though.” He handed me a bottle.  
“Okay.” I agreed. He was right.  
Phil always gave me plenty of time to process; he never tried to rush me. After several minutes of silence, Phil placed his hand on my arm. He liked to touch me, then speak as he knew it may startle me.  
“I took care of the merch thing,” He started. “I know you don't feel well, but I wanted to ease your mind somewhat. I also am editing a generic stock video from a month ago. I will upload that later. I know they want SIMS, but this will have to do.” Phil only had the “take it or leave it” attitude with our viewers when I was like this. He didn't ever make excuses for me, because the thought that he may need to, never crossed his mind. He was only this black and white and stern when it came to me not feeling well. It was endearing. It was very Phil Lester.  
“It was a good idea to film those,” I muttered. My voice sounds strange, even to me. “Thanks.”  
“You're welcome. Now, how about we play a game? Just for fun.”  
“Um,” I really didn't want to, but I kept remembering something I had heard “It's okay to try and stop.” This was true, there wasn't anything wrong with trying. It may help me and if it was too much I could stop. “I will try.”  
“Good. Meet me in the lounge!” Phil scurried out of the room. He was trying so hard, he always did. The least I could do is at least try to humor him, right? I stood up and shuffled back to my room to grab a blanket and continued to the lounge.  
“Oh shit,” Phil said as he started to die.  
“Go left, Phil! Don't keep peeking that way!”  
“Damn it!”  
Phil died, a snicker escaped my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his face light up.  
“Oh, does Danny think me dying is funny?”  
“When you did the exact opposite of what I said so it ends up being the reason you die, then yeah.”  
“Hey!”  
I laughed “Well, I was right you turnip. You should have gone left.”  
“You will never know that for sure.”  
“Oh, I know.” I smiled, I had made the right choice playing with Phil. This time, it had helped. This time, I was lucky.  
Phil smiled back at me. “Another go?”  
“No,” I said standing up. “I think I am going to go to bed.”  
“Okay, I will see you in the morning. Sleep well Dan, tomorrow is a different day!”  
“Night,” I muttered as walked to my room. Phil said the same thing to me anytime I had a bad day for what seemed like years. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Phil had started to say it this way after the countless times in the past when he would say: “Tomorrow's another day.” backfired on him. I would whine, moan, or asked to be killed or just yell nonsense about that being the problem. Phil was trying to be encouraging, I was just being an asshole. I don't know how Phil puts up with me, I am a twat. I should apologize to him more. My body feels lighter, even if it is only slightly. My head is less fuzzy, the aching has calmed to a minimum. I sigh as I close my eyes. Today is almost over, I hope tomorrow is better.  
I open my eyes, I feel better. “Thank God,” I mutter as I smiled and get up. The days when the black hole closes and my head finally feels above water again are the best days. I walk out into the lounge and smile, Phil is still asleep. I start to make pancakes. This became an unintentional tradition of sorts. It showed him not only that I appreciated all of his help and caregiving, but that I was feeling okay again.  
The coffee is made and the pancakes are nearly finished when a sleepy looking Phil pokes his head around the corner, grinning from ear to ear.  
“Hey,” I say casually. He steps forward until he's directly in front of me. He looks me in the eye and I nod, knowing what he is asking permission for. He leans in and hugs me tightly. I hug back. He pulls away, his eyes misty. “Welcome back, Dan.”  
“Thank you.”  
This depression thing really will always try to take me captive against myself. I am now learning how to manage, what to avoid and when to ask for help. It was just really a bonus for me that my best friend was willing to stay beside me while I figured it out. There were going to be days that were bad, there were going to be days that were so dark I wouldn't be able to get out of bed, but there were always going to be these days too. Days where carefree Dan and Phil can give each other shit, work together and just be best friends. Dan smiled at Phil over a forkful.  
“Thanks, you know, for yesterday.”  
“You're welcome. I am proud of you for taking care of yourself and asking for help. I am proud that you are not trying to make excuses and that you are just accepting it so you can get better.”  
I blushed, this always is the hardest, when Phil gives me praise. He smiles.  
“So, Are we visiting Dil today?”  
“You know, I think we just may.”  
Phil smiled and went back to his pancakes. This was the reason I had to get out of bed when I didn't want to. This is why I had to force myself to eat, to bathe, to go outside. This is one of the reasons I found a Therapist and took medications at one time. I never wanted to lose sight or appreciate how wonderful Phil's spirit was. I didn't want to block his light from shining. This Phil Lester was a brilliant person, and on days like this one, I couldn't wait to see what the future held. I would continue to make Phil proud of me, as much as I could.  
“Hey, Space case,” Phil interrupted.  
“Sorry, what?”  
“You're okay?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. Now, TO THE GAMING ROOM!” He yelled, standing suddenly and I laughed.  
“To the gaming room,” I said, then muttered. “You dork. God.”  
I am a really fucking lucky guy.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write this because I was having a rough day myself today. This story is how I envision Dan's rough days could be, mingled with my own experiences.  
> Everyone's Depression/Anxiety/Mental Illness are different, this is just my take and a story.  
> Thanks for reading. You are not alone if you are suffering from these things like I am.


End file.
